


Chaos

by the_dangerous_ginger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Tragedy, M/M, Season 11 Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, possibly (depends on interpretation), post-season 11 ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:44:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dangerous_ginger/pseuds/the_dangerous_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, nothing but quiet chaos remains.<br/>Fires flicker and dance around the three bodies, washing warmth over the blood soaked remnants of those who stood for free will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at one in the morning during one of my insomnia episodes.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~K

In the end, nothing but quiet chaos remains.

Fires flicker and dance around the three bodies, washing warmth over the blood soaked remnants of those who stood for free will.

There’s blood in his mouth and dirt buried in his skin. His body aches but he doesn’t feel it, not really. It resides in the back of his mind, floating absently on the edge of his focus.

His brother is alive, sitting a few feet from him. A trail of blood trickles from his nose and mouth, traveling down his neck and staining the collar of his already ruined shirt.

The Darkness is long gone, her body disintegrating the moment she died, leaving nothing but a plume of arid black smoke to waft away in her wake.

The Devil is gone, too.

All that remains is the shell of whom he’d inhabited.

Castiel.

The moment Lucifer had touched him, it had all clicked. He should have known from the way he’d walked, talked, and, hell, even dressed that the angel he’d come know and undoubtedly love was not the same.  
Ever since, neither Heaven nor Hell could stop him from trying to get his best friend back.

Now the man in question’s eyes stare, unseeing, up at the sky. He can’t bare to look at the dulled remains of a color so beautiful, so he gently closes Castiel’s eyelids, for the time being.

He’s content to wait but the skin under his fingertips is cold, and it shakes something inside of him.

Emotions haven’t bubbled to the surface yet, because, deep down, a part of him believes that the angel will wake soon. The graying and waxy skin begin to tell him otherwise.

Panic wells up inside him and he hauls the body closer towards him, laying the angel’s head in his lap.

The Devil’s words ring out in his head.

 _‘He fell for you, Dean. You never questioned why. He sacrificed everything for you. His orders, his family, his faith, and even his grace, all in the name of Dean Winchester. He gave up everything that made him Castiel Angel of The Lord. Never once did you stop to think why? Silly, silly boy.’_ Lucifer had tsked at him, using the voice he’d come to know so well.

Unrelenting agony rips through him as the horrid truth sinks in.

Tears, scalding hot and unbidden, begin to trail down his cheeks, dripping off his chin and onto the angel in his lap’s head. He clutches to Castiel’s face, and tries to shake the life back into him, name falling from his lips in stuttered sobs.

He squeezes his eyes closed and, God help him, he begins to pray.

He begs, and pleads, _“Bring him back! Please, bring him back!”_

When that does nothing he curses, screaming and shouting at the sky above him.

He eventually screams himself hoarse.

Sobs choke him as he rocks back and forth, whispering for the angel, his angel, to come back one last time. Apologies and promises spill from him in pained whispers, falling on ears that can no longer hear him.

It begins to rain.

The dirt under him starts to become sticky and cold, and soon his brother is pulling on his shoulder, trying to pry him away. He turns to shout at him as well, but stops.

Red rimmed eyes meet his and the fight is gone.

Together they carry the body to the Impala, gently draping it across the backseat.

He hands his brother the keys and climbs in the back as well, once again cradling the angel’s head in his lap.

The Winchesters place Castiel’s body in the room he’d intended to claim as his own. They will give him a proper hunter’s funeral the following day.

They do not celebrate their victory, for they may have won the war, but the cost was all too devastating.

The pair share a drink in memory of their fallen before the younger ambles away, presumably to attempt to sleep.

He stays and has another drink.

Then another and another.

Eventually, one drink becomes one bottle, one bottle becomes two.

The names and faces of those they had lost haunt him, but none more than the angel they’d lost that day.

Almighty, impenetrable, Castiel.  
Valiant, courageous, Castiel.  
Beautifully broken, Castiel.

Soon, his body gives in to sleep’s siren call, and he slumps over, an empty bottle still clutched in his hand.

Very rarely does the occasion arise where he’s not subjected to a horror filled nightmare, but this time chose to be different.

Castiel stands in front of him, seemingly full of life, but inexplicably sad. The angel reaches for him, tracing soft, warm fingers down the length of his face.

It’s only a dream.

The realization throws him into anguish’s grip again, and the bottle he’s been holding shatters in his hold.

Glass cuts deep into his palm, ripping through skin, muscle, and sinew. Exquisite pain fires through his entire arm, making him cry out.

The pain is soon forgotten, though.

In front of him, Castiel still stands, frantic worry etched into his features.

Pain means it is no longer a dream, right?

Without a thought he surges forward, gripping the tattered edges of the angel’s beloved trench coat, ignoring the screaming agony that radiates through his hand.

His lips meet the angel’s with shocking tenderness, granted his fervor.

Chapped lips brush velvety soft against his own.  
Sweet spice mingles with his own whiskey addled taste.  
Wet streaks cover both of their faces.

Declarations of love, so soft and mellifluous are traded between them, passed by warm silken tongues.

Shining blue eyes mert bloodshot green ones when they break apart.

“Hello, Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Let me know!
> 
> ~K  
> Tumblr: the-dangerous-ginger.tumblr.com/  
> Writing blog: the-brain-and-the-machine.tumblr.com/


End file.
